Biological Warfare
by Andrew Nixon
Summary: The 7th Doctor and Ace. This starts somewhen between Lungbarrow, and Doctor Who: The Movie. Not entirely sure where it will go after that... (Blimey! How Timey-Wimey!) Note: This now contains adult themes and language, and scenes of violence. Please let me know if I need to change the rating.
1. Chapter 1

**PROLOGUE**

Everywhere is white. An impenetrable absence of visual stimuli that stretches as far as the eye can't see.

This is unsettling, at the very least, but before any nascent fear can develop into full-blown panic…

A sound intrudes. It is soft, at first, just hovering on the edge of audibility.

But at least it is _something_. Proof that this apparent non-place has some form of substance or existence. The volume builds gradually, but levels off still far below that at which any clues to its origin can be gleaned. Yet it is soothingly repetitive, an undeniable presence permeating the void. A low background hum of ambient Techno? Perhaps. A mechanical heartbeat? Maybe.

" _Ace?"_

The voice intrudes gently into an almost insufferably pleasant sensation of floating drowsiness, and the first reaction is to tell it to go away – but then the implications register.

A voice?

A name?

Whatever this means, surely it must require some investigation… some thought? But the all-encompassing embrace of the subliminal susurrations seems to deny any necessity for action, _or_ reaction.

 _You are safe. You are safe. You are safe. You are safe. You are safe._ It says.

It reassures without words. This is good. This is right. This is the way things are meant to be, and there is nothing at all to worry about…

" _Can you hear me, Ace?"_

The voice returns, and this time there is a nagging familiarity in the softly accented burr. This _not_ good. This is _not_ right. This is something that should be denied – but it is too late.

Dorothy realises that she _is_ Dorothy, and… She doesn't belong here.

" _Professor? Am I dreaming?"_ Even as she embodies these words inside her head, Dorothy accepts the undeniable truth of them. She hasn't gone by that infantile nickname for such a long time, and hasn't seen The Doctor for even longer. She cannot see him now, she cannot see anything – just the white void. It _must_ be a dream. But perhaps now she is on the verge of waking up? Maybe unpleasant spectres from the past are rising to haunt her, as she is dragged inexorably back towards the waking world.

Dorothy has _been_ Dorothy for so long now, who else but her 'Professor' would call her…

"Ace? Can you hear me, Ace? Please tell me you can hear me! Come back to me, Ace!" There is an edge of panic to the accent now, an urgency that doesn't seem appropriate for a dream conversation. Dorothy is hauntingly aware of her body as well, even though nothing really seems to exist outside of her own mind… but the frown of confusion she can feel creasing her forehead is difficult to dismiss.

"Doctor?" She asks into the blankness, almost surprised at hearing her own voice so clearly. "Is that you?"

A flood of relief fills the reply. "Oh, Ace! I'm so glad that you're back! I was afraid that… Well, never mind that, just relax and take deep…"

"Back from where?' Dorothy interrupts in alarm. An inchoate panic has suddenly gripped her, but she still can't move. Even more frightening is the suspicion that…

Maybe this isn't a dream after all.

'Where am I? What's happening? I can hear you, but I can't see you!" The tsunami of automatic questions sweeps the protesting Dorothy back…

Back to the bad days, when only the Professor could make things right… even when he was in the wrong.

"Don't worry, Ace.' The voice is warmer now, closer, and Dorothy can hear the words left unsaid in the way his hand gently strokes her forehead. _('I'm here now, Ace. Everything will be alright. Trust me.')_

'We're back in the Tardis.

'In fact, more specifically, we are in The Zero Room!'

Dorothy assumes that she must, indeed, be 'alright'. The oh-so-familiar sprightly spring has returned to his clipped delivery once more. However, she can feel herself tense up instinctively, in primal 'fight or flight' response, as the Doctor's voice becomes excessively casual.

'I can assure you, Ace, that there is absolutely nothing wrong with your eyes…"

"Then why can't I see anything? And what is this?"

"Ah! Well, the not seeing – that's merely temporary!

'…And this? – why, this is the best place to be!' His voice speeds up in that way Dorothy remembers so well, from times when he was frantically trying to make up an excuse, any excuse, on the spot. 'You see…' He evades, with practiced ease, 'I needed to put you into a trance.

'To aid recovery…

'And The Zero Room is the perfect environment for that sort of thing!"

Only one word of this answer makes an immediate impression. "Recovery? Recovery from what? What's happened to me, Professor?" _(Unbelievable! Now I even sound like Ace!)_

Not for the first time, Dorothy is struck by the notion that she has spent more time with the Doctor than she has actually been alive. She knows his mannerisms, his expressions, and his vocal inflections… She knows them well enough to see him without needing her vision. She is also familiar enough with his Machiavellian manipulations, his deceits and betrayals, to allow a filter of distrust to colour this picture.

"Oh! No, no, no!' The Doctor protests quickly, projecting a self-deprecating note of humour into his voice. He is leaning back into a chair and clasping his hands, shaking them in negation. (The seat cover squeaks, and she hears the rasp of dry flesh on flesh.)

'I didn't mean it like that, Ace!'

He leans forward again, resting his arms on his knees and laughing at himself. (She can feel his breath against her cheek. She can smell peppermint and… cinnamon?)

'Bad use of words.

'Sorry."

There is a pause. A reluctant, hesitant, silence.

Dorothy can read so _much_ into that silence. He is gazing at her thoughtfully, pensively. Perhaps he is tapping two fingers against his lips, or maybe nibbling absently on a thumbnail. She just lays there patiently – she is a grown woman now, she doesn't _need_ to be Ace anymore – until she hears him sigh.

Then, (Dorothy can _see_ this so clearly!) he looks away from her comatose form, eyes filled with sadness and regret, and admits. "I meant that I need to recover something _from_ you, Ace.

'I need you to _remember_ something for me."

This doesn't sound good.

Dorothy tries to deflect him by sounding aggressively indignant. Just like Ace would have done, back in the day. "Oh yeah? So you reckon my memory is _so_ bad that you had to put me into a trance to recover it, right, Professor?"

"Of course not, Ace!

'As if!

He is responding as expected, following her lead. Playing the game. But then the façade crumbles, ever so slightly.

'Well… perhaps…

'Maybe…

'Sort of…

Dorothy knows that his next words are the truth, because she can feel a deep chill spread, as her rapidly freezing heart begins pumping ice throughout her body.

"Actually, it's a little bit more complicated than that, Ace…

'You see… some time ago I, well…

'I sort of _hid_ some of your memories from you."

The chill spreads further.

 _Little Dotty, all scared and alone. Lots of noise, and flashing lights. The hospital has no beds left in the children's unit, so she has been rushed to the geriatric ward. A needle is stuck into the back of her hand, secured with a sticking plaster, and a red plastic bag attached to a metal stand is placed beside her bed. It is all very frightening… But Dotty feels so weak, so out of touch with her own body, that she can only cry silent tears as the scary people surround her._

 _A friendly face, with smiling eyes and a gentle voice, explains. "We only have one blood heating unit for the entire ward, dear, so this will feel a little cold. Be brave! Your Mummy will be here soon!"_

 _The numbness arrives then, as blood straight from the chiller cabinet enters the back of her hand. With aching slowness, icy tendrils begin to creep up Dotty's arm.._.

The chill spreads even further, only to be burnt away in an instant by a surge of unreasoning, uncompromising, anger.

"You did _what?"_

Dorothy's anguished cry is laced with shocked disbelief, and an accusation of betrayal. If she could, she would rip the source of the ice in her veins from her arm… but that is just a distant memory.

Right here, right now, she is unable to move. But the Doctor squirms.

"It was for your own good, Ace! I promise you that!'

She can see his abject sense of guilt in the tone of his voice, the wheedling desperation to justify something that he knows, deep down, is unforgivable.

'I wouldn't have done it otherwise! I was only thinking of your wellbeing. I was trying to _protect_ you!' He claims urgently, begging for forgiveness that he knows he doesn't deserve.

Dorothy waits, marshalling her anger, as her Professor fidgets on his chair and then, reluctantly, admits…

'However…

'Circumstances have changed. I think that you are strong enough to face the truth now."

The overbearing, condescending, hypocritical _arrogance_ of this man – who isn't even a _man_ in the parochial sense in which Dorothy has been indoctrinated since birth – simply takes her breath away.

"Strong enough?' She whispers incredulously. Then, deeply annoyed by her own weakness, she _screams,_ 'Strong enough for _what,_ 'Professor'? What did you make me _forget?"_

"Umm…'

The mumbled reply is so hesitant, so uncertain, that Dorothy begins to suspect that he may not be _her_ Professor after all.

'Well, I don't really know that bit. Not the specific details, anyway.'

The next pause is almost painful.

In Dorothy's head, a lost little man wrings his hands desperately, shaking his head in denial of what he feels that he _must_ say next.

The words emerge quietly, unwillingly, as if he doesn't even want to admit them to himself.

'Something happened to you, Ace, after you left me that first time… Back on Heaven.

'Something _bad,_ I think.

'I'm not too sure, you see, because I wasn't actually there at the time.

'That's really the whole point of this little exercise.

'You are a different woman now, Ace. In fact, you are probably the strongest person I know, otherwise I wouldn't have ris…

'I mean, I wouldn't ask you to do this…

 _(Hesitant. Cautious… Apologetic?)_ 'May I proceed, Ace?"

" _Wait!"_ The vehemence in her own voice startles Dorothy, and she has to stop to analyse her conflicting emotions before she can begin to process these disturbing revelations.

She sees herself throttling the scrawny neck of an insufferably conceited and superior alien monster. She is screaming, "What have you done to me you _BASTARD!"_ Spittle flying into his face as he desperately tries to break free from her grip.

But all that she actually hears is. "What are you gonna do to me, Doctor? Just dump a load of memories into my head, or what?" Her voice sounds oddly distant and unconcerned.

"No, Ace.' He sighs. Her mental picture of him removes his hat and gazes thoughtfully into its interior, as if it somehow contains all the answers. He sighs again, despondently, quietly. 'Events will unfold as you experienced them when they actually happened…

'Before I took them from you…'

He twirls the hat around a finger, then allows it to roll down his arm, until he can bounce it off an elbow to land back on his head. He tries on a cheeky grin, but it doesn't seem to fit anymore.

'Almost as if you were reliving that time over again.' The words are now reluctant, but he rallies with… 'Think of it as a story, Ace. One that you just happened to take part in… If that helps...'

The hesitation, the uncertainty, is back in his voice. There is also a disturbingly pleading quality, as if his request is _desperately_ important, but he doesn't want to make her do anything against her will. (It is far too late for that, of course, but is he even _capable_ of understanding?)

'Ace?" He asks quietly, 'Do I have your permission? May I restore your memories?"

As if it was that _simple!_ As if the realisation that he has stolen who knows _how many years_ from her means no more than…

No more than putting a bookmark in a page, to show where you had last stopped reading the story…

He is so alien.

How could she _ever_ have loved him?

But then Dorothy realises that none of that actually matters. Not anymore. Whatever reasons the Professor may present for his abuse of her 'inaliable' rights as an individual, he is also offering her the chance to relive that part of her life which he has stolen from her. No matter how traumatic, no matter how unpleasant those memories – Dorothy wants to _know._

"Okay.' She agrees, sounding much calmer than she actually feels. 'Do it.

'But we will be having serious words about this when it is all…

+++++++++++++++++ Insert line-break. ++++++++++++++++++

 _Note: I confidently predict that this will only be updated sporadically, as and when I need a break from 'The Best Shopping Centre in The Universe.'_


	2. Chapter 2

**EPISODE ONE: NO MORE TEARS**

"Gordon Bleedin' Bennet!"

McShane's startled exclamation went unheard even by herself as she hurled herself over a rock, and tried to bury herself underneath it. Only those lightning fast reactions saved her from being claymore'd – by the blast front of rock fragments and organic shrapnel hurtling towards her.

Huddling deep into the sheltering bulwark of a rock that she suddenly felt a deep affection for, McShane cursed violently at her own stupidity – even as the tsunami of destruction blew past and around her shelter.

 _Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!_

What had she been thinking?

But, of course, she _hadn't_ been thinking. There hadn't been any _time_ to think. When the Roboman had appeared before her so suddenly, all she saw was the BFG he was bringing to bear on her, and she had reacted instantly. Even though everything had happened in seconds, with the perfect recall of sudden terror, McShane could now picture it all in slow motion. The instant she had squeezed the trigger of her Space Fleet issue 'Davros' Strategic Assault Weapon, the high velocity slug had covered the distance to the target. Unfortunately, McShane was still loaded for bear, and the Armour Piercing High Explosive round had punched through the Roboman's chest without slowing perceptibly – to impact and detonate against the cliff face behind him. The subsequent explosion of rock had practically vapourised the Roboman, but she hadn't stuck around to enjoy the show.

Problem was, McShane couldn't blame anyone else for this particular near death experience. She knew it was her own fault. She should have swapped out her load _before_ entering this obstacle course of a canyon, but was so focused on keeping an eye out for the enemy, it hadn't even occurred to her.

They had been briefed to expect a hot LZ which, as far as McShane was concerned, meant Dalek's. So she'd got bombed up with Dalek Busters as her primary load, storing the less powerful munitions in pouches, and her backpack. When they had hit dirt there was no indication of an actual Dalek presence, but she hadn't been able to bring herself to believe it. That there wouldn't be _any_ heavy metal, waiting out there somewhere.

They had been taking fire from the get go, no questions. The DeeKay right in front of her in the stick had landed in two pieces, neither of which got up afterwards. But it wasn't a dalek energy weapon that had inflicted the damage. That much was evident from the fact that there was a body left, no matter how many pieces it was in.

Fortunately for McShane, the Hearse pilot had pulled up instantly, and didn't venture near the ground again until his gunner's had hosed down the suspect area thoroughly. McShane was able to jump out on the next pass, very grateful that she hadn't had to land on the remains of her less than lucky squad mate. Still, even though she knew there was no possibility that he could have survived, she crouch-ran over to the corpse anyway, just because she felt that she _had_ to. She could hear the Dee-Kay's behind her laying down covering fire as she went, and trusted them to keep the bad guys off her back.

She hadn't known Eberly very well. They had only had sex a couple of times in the three months since she had rotated to the _Endurance_. Even that hadn't been due to any particular mutual affection, simply the attraction of two superbly fit individuals indulging in the most enjoyable form of physical exercise ever invented. But the least she could do was close his eyes – a final salute to a fallen comrade.

Skirting the lower half of Eberly's body, careful not to slip in the spag bol gore, McShane knelt by his face-down upper torso – he was still there from the ribcage up. Taking a quick 360, she noted that the rest of the squad had now fully debarked and were aggressively moving into preliminary defensive positions. The chaotic terrain of this dirtball called…

She couldn't remember what it was called, but after a certain number of missions, that didn't really matter anymore – the dirtball looked distinctly Dalek proof. But since the bastards could fly anyway, what did that prove? For the moment however, it looked as if she still had time to pay her last respects. Setting her Davros to one side, she hauled Eberly's pitiful remains over until he was face-up. As she settled him gently on his back, McShane was surprised to see that his eyes were already closed, then a frisson of shock jolted through her as they opened and he looked directly at her.

"Jesus Wept, Eberly! What does it take to kill you?" She had cried involuntarily, and he had grinned at her, his pearly whites sheathed in blood. (As was much of his lower face.) McShane wasn't sure if he tried to talk to her then, despite the heaving labour of what was left of his chest. All he managed to produce were bubbles of blood, which popped against his lips, but she did feel a faint nudging against her thigh. Eberly shifted his intent gaze in that direction, and she saw that he was weakly brushing a hand against her. After a quick look to double check the mute entreaty in his eyes, McShane clasped his hand in both of hers and squeezed firmly, before bringing it up to her chest so that – even if he couldn't feel it – he could _see_ that she was holding his hand. His pained grin relaxed into a satisfied and contented smile.

While the air around her became filled with the _thwip thwip thwip_ of angry insects, and the rest of the squad continued calling out targets and returning fire, she held his hand. She held his hand, and she held his gaze – until his eyes went out.

Then she gently lowered his eyelids and kissed him on the lips, mindless of the gore coating his face. It was the least she could do. Honour satisfied, McShane retrieved her own Davros, and then cast about until she located Eberly's, checking to see that it wasn't fouled. Even as, satisfied with the state of his SAW, she had slung the strap over her shoulder… she registered someone calling her name over the net. It was Sergeant Wokwa, calling out target locations that he wanted her to take out. Calmly, quietly, McShane began placing rounds as instructed. She hadn't even realised that she was crying until she tasted tears mixed with Eberly's blood on her lips.

The terrain was chaotic alright, with lots of cover. (For the enemy, mainly.) In fact, this LZ had been selected because it was the only large enough area of flat available, _anywhere_ near were they wanted to be. (Probably why there was an armed presence watching it…) Judging from random reports she heard over the net, nobody in the squad had actually seen what they were fighting yet. McShane certainly hadn't. After the initial flurry of lobbing ordnance into the various rock clusters specified by Sergeant Wokwa, she found herself in a quiet place… and suddenly realised just how exposed she was. It was miracle that she hadn't taken any rounds yet. She decided to find an elsewhere to be, and scoped around for a likely spot before announcing. "McShane. Advancing to large orange formation, fifty metres South East of Point Zero."

"Wokwa. Acknowledged. All Dee-Kay's. If you're not already in amongst the rocks, get there ASAP. Second Hearse incoming."

There were only a couple of acknowledgements to that. It appeared that most of the troops had thought of it long before McShane did. She shook her head ruefully as she ran to the peculiarly shaped rock she had chosen. Strangely, she couldn't hear weapon fire anymore, not from the enemy, or her own people. Surely they hadn't taken out all the opposition so soon? It couldn't have been that easy! Even as she was thinking this, a puzzled voice said, "Jontru. Purple pillar, hundred metres due South of Point Zero. Anyone have eyes on bad guys?"

It turned out that nobody did.

After a brief round robin, Wokwa called a halt when they heard the approach of the second half of the squad. Before the Hearse got any closer, he made his decision. "Jontru, RV McShane's location. I want the two of you to scout around, see if you can find any intact bodies. The rest of you, eyes peeled. I want perimeter cover for the LT, and I'm sure McShane and Jontru would appreciate an overwatch if they are in sight of your position. I'm going secure, so you won't hear from me for a while, got to brief the LT. Out."

While she was waiting for Trooper Jontru – a squat, muscular human colonist from Andromeda – to join her, McShane examined the area more carefully. At first glance, the LZ itself resembled the silted up caldera of an extinct volcano, as the terrain surrounding it sloped upwards. Not in any clear pattern that could explain its origin, but then McShane was no geologist, so didn't concern herself overmuch with that. She was more interested in the topography from the point of view of someone who expected to be spending a lot of time running up and down it. From that perspective, it was pretty daunting…

First there were the strange rock formations jutting up everywhere, severely compromising line of sight. Clogging up much of the ground between them was tons of loose rock, ranging from rubble and scree, to huge boulders and fallen pillars. To make things even more entertaining, as far as McShane could tell from her position, cracks and crevices ran through the bedrock, some tiny, others extremely _not_ tiny. It looked like the decision to include climbing gear in the loadout would prove to be prescient. (McShane usually loved a bit of climbing, but not when there was the slightest possibility that something would be taking potshots at her.)

The only sounds now were the eerie notes caused when the wind gusted through some of the stranger crystalline structures, or dislodged scree and scrabble from a sloping surface. McShane heard Jontru's approach long before she saw him. Not only were his boot steps easy to pick out – he was also swearing enthusiastically at every stone or pebble that dared to impede his progress. He grinned at her ruefully when he eventually located her. "I just decided to rename this planet when we get back to the _Endurance_ … I'm gonna call it Total Bastard!" She grinned at him, appreciating the comment, and unslung Eberly's SAW to stash it by her rock.

Once they had set out on their search, McShane found herself agreeing with the stocky little man much more than a little. Not only was it practically impossible to move stealthily, they had to constantly check their footing, whilst trying to scan for possible opposition. There were just so many places that offered concealment, and so many others that offered a short trip to a long drop. (The heat didn't help.) They traded banter, just to keep each other on their toes, but this didn't distract them from the task. It wasn't until they were deep into the bad stuff that they found the first (more or less) complete body. The two previous locations they had checked had provided only bleak destruction coated in spatters of organic residue. (Kind of inevitable when you lob Dalek Busters onto a soft target!)

As they stood looking down at the corpse, McShane felt a deep sinking sensation in her stomach, and Jontru snarled "Robomen!" in weary disgust.

As it happened, this particular Roboman had been a Sontaran in a previous life, but the glint of metal showing through the gaping hole in its head left little doubt as to its current status. There was something immediately recognisable about Dalek technology, even though she had never seen one of their insidious neural webs before. Jontru nudged the body with his foot, just enough to show McShane the weapon it had been armed with, then raised an eyebrow at her enquiringly. She nodded in agreement and said, "Go call it in. The others need to know about this. I'll police the body and make sure there aren't any nasty Dalek surprises on it."

Jontru stepped back from the Roboman, looking around at the mineral formations all around them before saying. "You know what, McShane? I'd feel a lot happier if there was some way of telling which of these rocks were going to interfere with the comms net – before we got in amongst them!" Then he turned and moved out, hoping to locate an area free of the natural jamming.

"Copy that…" McShane sighed to herself as she approached the corpse, listening to Jontru's crunching footstep's recede. She knelt by the Roboman, pulled its weapon free and hurled it away, then began a careful search of its clothing.

The first time that McShane had ever heard of Robomen was when she had travelled with the Doctor, long before she joined (or had even heard of,) Space Fleet. But the Robomen that the Doctor had talked about had just sounded like… 'Lobotomized bikers with guns' to Ace, as she used to call herself back then. According to the Doctor, the Dalek thralls that _he_ had encountered all wore the same uniforms, the same sunglasses – even the same crash helmets with transistor radios stuck to the side. Looking back on that description now, McShane found it more telling that the Doctor's Robomen were all human males. Perhaps he had met the very first generation of thralls to have been enslaved, 'robotised' with experimental Dalek technology. They certainly sounded primitive enough for that to be the case, and the term 'Roboman' was still used to describe any victim of robotisation, regardless of species or sex.

They definitely would have been easier to identify in a fight! These days the Daleks didn't care what their Robomen looked like, as long as they could function to Dalek requirements. They were left wearing whatever they were dressed in upon capture, until they died, even if those garments were rotting on their frames. However, freshly robotised thralls were practically impossible to tell apart from the people they had once been. McShane had seen Dee-Kay's in tears when they had been forced to open fire on members of their own species – only able to console themselves with the thought that death was the better alternative. Unlike Robomen of the past, these new victims _weren't_ turned into 'robots' – machines that can only carry out pre-programmed functions within a predefined set of parameters – because the Dalek Scientific Elite were so hideously clever.

Somehow, they had found a way to subvert the cerebral processes and cognitive functioning of a victim: to integrate their 'neural web' device so efficiently that the Roboman's thoughts became the Daleks thoughts.

This was the most sickening thing that anyone dealing with this new breed of 'Robomen' had to face. The knowledge that these people, whatever their species, had not had their minds wiped – or their brains removed – to be totally replaced with new orders. These people still knew who 'they' were, but were held prisoner inside their own bodies. Once in thrall to the Dalek Overmind, they could only bear mute witness to the atrocities that their bodies were forced to perpetrate.

Fortunately, this monstrous form of slavery still appeared to be rather new, and wasn't yet the widespread horror that Space Fleet Intelligence so obviously feared. They were terrified that the Daleks might somehow develop the program to a level that would allow them to infiltrate _any_ anti-Dalek faction, any resistance force, even – Saint's Preserve Us! – Space Fleet Intelligence…

The Dee-Kay's – and all of the regular troops, whatever their species or affiliations – had smaller, more personal fears. They didn't want to one day find themselves facing a friend or a loved one on a battlefield. They didn't want to survive a battle, only to wake up to the knowledge that _they_ had been robotised, and would shortly be doing their best to slaughter former brothers and sisters-in-arms.

Take this Sontaran for instance. Had it been desperately trying _not_ to open fire on the Space Fleet troopers? Had it raged in fury and impotent rage as it cut Eberly in half with the ruthless skill and efficiency of a creature created for warfare? McShane didn't know, of course, but she suspected that it had. Sontaran's were uneasy allies, but they knew that the Daleks presented a clear and present threat to all non-Daleks, and took pride in their ability to kill.

But they preferred to choose their own targets…

This ones Sontaran combat gear was relatively fresh – it must have been a 'new recruit' – and McShane puzzled over why it was wearing a sort of padded one piece black jumpsuit, rather than the body armour that she associated with these cloned troopers. Shrugging, she dismissed the question as irrelevant. After thoroughly checking its back for any signs of booby traps, McShane heaved it over and repeated the process on the front of its uniform. There were very few places to check on the outside – it was obviously not gear designed with prolonged frontline combat operations in mind, (a dress suit, maybe?) So McShane was faced with the unpleasant prospect of opening it up. She had never seen a Sontaran naked – had never really wanted to – but it seemed likely that if there _was_ anything to find, it would have been implanted into the Roboman's body.

It took her a while to figure out how to peel this particular potato, but when she had finally exposed the ugly grey chest, McShane stared at it in horror. She had assumed that the damage to the Roboman's neural web would have cut off any links to the suspected Dalek presence on this shitty little world… But the distinctive blue light pulsing beneath the skin of its dead grey chest looked sphincter clenchingly ominous. Her heart rose into her throat.

Hearing the crunch, crunch, crunch of approaching boots on the rock littered surface behind her, McShane started to swing around, hoping that it was Jontru returning from a successful attempt at contacting the others. She had only made it halfway through the turn when she was transfixed by a vision from her worst nightmares. Hovering silently in the air – no more than three metres from her – was a Dalek!

It studied her impassively as she cast about for her Davros, but the SAW was nowhere in sight – even though she had only just put it down! She tried to stand up and run, but the bedrock suddenly liquefied beneath her. It was like trying to run through body temp molten lava – the more frantically she struggled, the less progress she made. The most frightening aspect was the way that the Dalek simply observed her silently, apparently in no particular hurry to kill her, until its dome lights flashed as it said…

"GAME OVEEEER!

"YOOUU! LOOOO-OOOOS!"

McShane felt herself lifted into the air and saturated with inconceivable agony as the Dalek's ray struck her lower stomach. Her outer suit might – _might_ – have protected her from a glancing strike from a Dalek energy weapon, but there was no way it could take a direct hit.

She was going to die!

Then, from the depths of her agony, she heard a voice scream "McShane!" and she fell to the ground as Jontru hurled himself into the path of the beam. Even as she landed heavily on her back, still burning all over: she found herself unable to take her eyes off his twitching body. His screams were like needles through her skull, and he jerked and flailed as the obscene weapon broke him down molecule by molecule…

He began to glow, and she knew that she would be next…


	3. Chapter 3

McShane started awake so abruptly that she slammed her forehead against the ceiling of her coffin.

Her vision whited out for a second – so split that it was gone almost before it had arrived – but at least the sudden pain banished the last fragments of nightmare into oblivion. Apart from that last image, flash frozen into her retina, as Jontru hurled himself into the path of the Dalek's beam. But that wasn't how it had happened! He hadn't died like that – he certainly hadn't been killed by a Dalek, whilst saving her… That happened later. That had been… Someone else.

Blinking to re-establish control over her eyesight, Trooper McShane concentrated on slowing her rapid breathing to a more normal level, and slowly took stock of her surroundings.

She knew where she was, of course, but this daily ritual helped the soldier to ground herself before confronting the world outside her head. The coffin – a Sleep Pod in naval parlance – was only slightly longer than her own reclining form, and not that much wider. The ceiling of the pod was just high enough to allow her to raise herself up on her elbows – hence the daily bang on the head – but strangely, McShane found the limited space comforting rather than claustrophobic. (After all, she had slept in smaller hotel rooms in her time.) The internal lighting had been activated as she woke – or maybe the sudden harsh intrusion of pink light through her eyelids was what had woken her… She was never able to tell. Still taking deep, calming breaths, McShane took careful inventory of her body. Glistening with nightmare-induced fear sweat, her athlete's physique offered up way posts and warning signs marking the landscape of her life.

Breasts. High and tight. Now rising and falling in a totally calm and controlled breathing pattern. The sheen of perspiration coated them evenly, except where a small rivulet of sweat followed the path of a scar over her heart. This was a souvenir from an encounter with a drunken Earth Reptile that had… taken objection to her for some reason. Fortunately, in his inebriated state he had chosen to slash rather than stab, so the wound ran diagonally across her left breast. She hadn't given him time to realise his mistake. Grabbing hold of his knife arm in her left hand, McShane had driven the rigid fingers of her right into his main eyes. As he bellowed in pain – or possibly outrage – his automatic reaction was to raise his hands towards that pain, so McShane had assisted him. Forcing the hand still gripping the knife upwards rapidly, she added the strength of her right arm to back up that of her left, and drove the blade into his third eye up to the hilt.

His scream had abruptly cut off, and in the ensuing silence, the wet thud of a sack of dead meat hitting the floor had seemed… inordinately loud.

McShane had gazed down numbly at the corpse for a few moments, trying to make sense out of what had just happened. Iktak had been, if not a friend, then at least a comrade-in-arms – a fellow Dee-Kay.

Then she had just turned and walked away, taking no notice of the other Dee-Kay's present. In turn, they were assiduously ignoring her. She knew that this meant that Iktak's body would be quietly 'disappeared', and the first that anyone higher up would hear about it would be seeing his name on the latest casualty list. Nobody tried to follow her, to talk or offer comfort, and for that she was enormously grateful. She had left Iktak's knife where it was, even though the unwritten law said it was now hers. She had never shared her fellow trooper's love of trophies.

But she had kept the scar.

Every wound was a lesson, a reminder. This one told her that death can come from the most unexpected directions, that even allies can be the enemy.

And that Dalek Killer's look after their own.

Raising herself higher on her elbows, until her bald pate was pressing against the ceiling, McShane followed the path of the rivulet as it trickled nervously between her breasts. It began to trace the contours of her taut abs, until it was ambushed by an ugly patch of burn tissue. Another scar, another story.

Another lesson.

By now McShane was fully in tune with herself and her environment. As she gazed in satisfaction at her muscular thighs, (her favourite bits of the machine called McShane,) she began to register the chill as the night sweat leached her body heat. She felt the dull throb of the ship through her skin, so constant and omnipresent that one had to concentrate to hear the sound it made. Lying back against the nanoweave foam support pad, McShane keyed in the code to release the hatch to her coffin. As it hummed down into exit position behind her head, McShane placed the palms of her hands against the ceiling. While she performed her press downs, locking the muscles of her arms into full flex against the pressure from her shoulders, she began to inhale deeply. Now that she could smell something other than herself, she suddenly became aware that she _could_ smell herself. It wasn't a bad smell, she decided – not yet.

Wafting in languidly from the hatchway... The smell and taste of hot metal. The ubiquitous mélange of chemical scents that made McShane feel that she was where she belonged. The smell of _warship_.

Actually, the _Tiburon_ was little more than a glorified corpse factory – a Troop Carrier, in navy speak – but McShane loved the smell of heavy duty ordnance and high explosives in the morning. It smelled of… Home.

Warmup isometrics completed, she took another sniff of herself, and concluded that she could put up with it until after her run. (It seemed counterproductive to take a mister and then go on a run, anyway.) Raising her knees just enough to place her feet flat against the foam support, McShane pushed herself partway out onto the waiting hatch cover. Once her upper torso was out far enough, she reached up to the hand grips above the opening, hauling herself out into a kneeling position on the hatch. Totally unconcerned about her nudity outside of her coffin, she reached back in to lift up the support foam and retrieved her utilities. McShane hated the paper thin, one-size-fits-nobody ship issue jumpsuits, but had to concede that they were more practical onboard the _Tiburon_ than her full combat gear. After retrieving her deck shoes also, McShane dropped the lot over the edge of her hatch, then took her entire weight on her hands as she swung her legs out behind her. With the ease of long practice, she then swung her knees back underneath the hatch to nudge it back into place, before using the hand grips of the coffins below hers as a ladder to descend.

Dropping catlike to the deck, she absently picked up her jumpsuit and slipped into it without any thought required, glancing around curiously to see if there were any other live bait around in this section. As usual, it appeared that all the corpsicles were still oblivious in their coffins. It wouldn't have mattered to her if she had an audience anyway. The few Dee-Kay's who had objected, (okay, objected _vociferously_ enough,) to spending the journey dead for the convenience of the crewers… Well, they had seen fellow Dalek Killer's naked so often that it didn't even register. On occasion they had even seen fellow Dee-Kay's insides, so being offended by a stray tit or cock – or whatever strange bodily appendages that the non-human troopers utilized – seemed… Well…

A bit silly, really.

Leaning one hand against the nearest coffin hatch for balance, McShane slipped on her deck shoes, ignoring the chill that seemed to emanate from its surface. (It was purely psychosomatic, she knew, but she just couldn't shake it.) Fully kitted up, she did a quick bit of dancing like a butterfly, stinging like a bee – followed up by a few 'Rocky' style punches into the bulkhead – just to remind herself that she was alive. Then she started to run.

Xiphonax – one of the Draconian Dee-Kay's – had actually created an exercise treadmill for himself: by the simple expedient of 'borrowing' one of the mid-weight cargo shunts and adapting it to his own requirements. All that had involved was to turn the thing upside down. (After removing the control handle, of course.) Once he had reattached the controls to the machine in its new orientation, the platform's motivator tread provided a perfectly adequate running mill. Although McShane appreciated the Draconian's cunning and ingenuity, she found running on one spot far too boring, and so had initiated her own 'cross-deck' training program.

Running through the corridors and decks of the _Tiburon_ itself would probably have been pretty boring also, if this wasn't such an unusual mission. On her previous jollies aboard corpse factories, the ships had been spacious and immaculate – clear passageways and rigidly defined go-no-go areas. The _Tiburon_ looked like the pack-rat home of an obsessive collector of 'things that go bang'. Every possible space was bristling with lovely explodey stuff – the ship was totally bombed up – and McShane was in McShane heaven.

In actual fact, she admitted to herself, calling it a run was a bit like calling a sabretooth tiger 'a rather large pussy cat'. She had only just built up enough speed to feel like she was actually going somewhere, before she faced her first major obstacle. Lashed down to the deck before her squatted a smug looking stack of armour piercing ammo crates. McShane could almost hear them sniggering to themselves as she approached at speed, and had to admit that the reaction was not unjustified. On her first attempt at this route she had decided that the best approach was to simply hurdle the stack…

This had not ended well.

However, she had since perfected her technique, and was grinning ferociously as she used her momentum to run _up_ the bulkhead adjoining the stack. Okay, so that only took her hallway past the obstacle, and she had to fall the rest of the way to the deck beyond. But she fell with _style_ , and landed running! "Up yours, Snot Boxes!" She yelled over her shoulder, giving them the finger.

This was what living was about! This was the only way to _really_ wake up! Feeling the strength building up inside her, McShane threw in a few (completely unnecessary) sorties up the bulkheads on either side of the corridor. She felt like she was flying!

Her deck shoes were flimsy and lightweight, granted, but the nanoweave composite soles had more than enough heft and traction to allow her to cope with almost any surface. As the comforting heat and presence of the _Tiburon_ more fully announced its existence, McShane rejoiced in the sweat – the _healthy_ sweat – that began to coat her flexing muscles. A quick leap to the left – _here!_ – and she bounced off an array of concussion missiles strapped to the bulkhead. With just the right amount of rebound, this provided the momentum she needed to reach the fourth tier of grab handles on the opposite side, and monkey-swing herself past a punji-pit array of badly stacked auto-flechette launchers. Successfully traversing the obstacle, she landed with a Kirk roll on the other side and immediately propelled herself at the opposite bulkhead, using the added height this tactic provided to launch herself onto the back of a rather confused looking mobile assault cannon – which shouldn't have been stored there in the first place.

McShane didn't care about that. She was in the zone, she was paddling posteriors, and she hurled herself recklessly from the top of the canon to snatch ahold of a top tier hand grab. As her speed slammed her into the ceiling of the corridor, she used her free hand to slap the release catch on the tween decks access hatch she had been aiming for, laughing to herself joyfully as her muscles did everything that she wanted them to.

After about half an hour of her improvised parkour, McShane's utilities were little more than papier mache fragments sticking to her frame like silly string. Even when she raced through the improvised mess hall on her way to the misters, she hardly noticed the other live bait that were beginning to congregate. Other people than Dalek Killer's might jeer at someone who had exhausted themselves after running for only half an hour.

A Dee-Kay would reply. "Oh yeah? Try running straight _up_."

+++++++++++++++++ Insert line-break. ++++++++++++++++++

Although the room itself wasn't particularly large, no more than six metres by four, McShane estimated: the total absence of clutter gave her a feeling of wide open spaces. On a more normal mission the cleansing room would have been crowded with bodies, either applying the sanitiser lotion, or simply waiting their turn in one of the mister cubicles. It was a place of equality and camaraderie, because one never knew when the assistance of a fellow trooper might be required to hit those hard to reach places.

With the majority of the task force hibernating for the duration, it was actually quite unusual for the few live bait currently on board to run into each other here. (Unless by specific arrangement.) So McShane was quite surprised when someone that she hadn't seen before exited a cubicle, just as she was making her way to her own. They only exchanged brief glances, and nods of acknowledgment, before Trooper McShane slipped into her mister, but he made an immediate impression. He was a tall, thin, black human. Not coffee, not cream, not mahogany… Black. So black that he almost looked blue as the overhead lighting glistened and sparkled off the moisture coating his body and bald crown.

Putting aside the mystery of his identity, (she would have noticed this man if he had ever been in _any_ of the areas she and her squad mates used,) McShane dialed up for the maximum five second misting. Before punching the activation stud, she also keyed in the code for the solution that would disassemble her shredded utilities, and slipped on the eye protectors provided in response. Even so, as she activated the spray, she closed her eyes anyway. Force of habit.

She felt herself being blasted from all sides by the initial waves of mist – even the cubicles door contained emitters – and allowed her body to relax into their ministrations. Even as she felt the ticklish tingle of her jumpsuit dissolving into its component molecules, McShane luxuriated in the pummeling the mist delivered – simultaneously massaging her muscles and cleansing her pores, As always, it was over far too soon, but she couldn't do anything about that. Still coated with a thin sheen of moisture, McShane removed her eye protectors and dropped them into the waiting receptacle, then retrieved the squeeze bulb that was dispensed. Feeling deliciously relaxed and glowing, she stepped out of the cubicle.

The mysterious soldier was still there, only halfway through applying his own cleansing lotion, but McShane didn't pay any attention to him. She just broke the seal on her own bulb, and began working the lotion into a lather all over herself. This was another bit of Space Fleet 'miracle technology' that had rapidly been accepted by all who had had the opportunity to use it. The solution not only contained cleansing and moisturising elements, but was also an extremely efficient depilatory. This was deeply appreciated by anyone who had to wear dual layer Space Fleet issue combats on a regular basis. (Skintight wasn't the word – sometimes McShane was convinced that the under suit was trying to get _under_ her skin!)

There were a whole bunch of other beneficial gubbins thrown into the mix, ranging from skin cell gobblers to nutrient enhancers, but what McShane liked most about it was the way that her muscles never felt sore afterwards, no matter how strenuous her workout had been. Still, even though she enjoyed the more normal (on this trip,) solitude that she usually experienced in the cleansing room, she could never quite manage to apply the solution effectively to the middle of her back. On this occasion, however, that should be easy enough to sort out.

Turning round to face the unknown Dee-Kay, McShane's request died on her lips when she saw that he was staring at her with a very intent, yet indecipherable, expression. She felt an eyebrow quirk. She knew she looked good, (particularly from behind,) and was used to attracting interest from males of any species that was even remotely humanoid – but the look on this man's face unnerved her slightly. "See something you like?" She asked, in a tone that managed to combine provocative invitation with challenging disdain. It had taken her a long time to master, and it usually confused the Wossname's out of any male that she directed it at.

Deliberately, almost insultingly, McShane allowed her eyes to drift lower, and was unable to prevent a snort of amusement. (Whether at the fact that he was not saluting her, or her own assumptions – she wasn't quite sure.)

"Obviously not!' She hurried on as she looked him in the face once more. "Should I be insulted?"

It was difficult to tell if he had even heard her. He was studying her face closely, almost with an air of desperation, but that only showed in his deep brown eyes. His face was an obsidian sculpture, and all he said was, "Turn around." as he took the squeeze bulb from her unresisting hand.

McShane tried another eyebrow raise, not sure that she would be able to speak past the sudden lump in her throat, and his face softened as it relaxed into an apologetic smile. "You missed a bit." He explained.

As she nodded her thanks and began to turn her back on him, McShane couldn't help but notice the fact that, although his jawline was liberally slathered, he had no lotion on his head. This was in exact opposition her own application of the depilatory, so she assumed that he must be one of those men that were _naturally_ bald. The touch of his hand against her back made her tense those muscles momentarily, which both surprised and embarrassed her, but she immediately shook off the unexpected response. As he began rubbing the lotion into her with a professional – almost clinical – touch: he asked hesitantly. "You were at Haven's Ridge?"

Despite herself, McShane stiffened at that name, and stepped away from him to whirl around and demand. "What do _you_ know about Haven's Ridge?"

If he was surprised by her reaction, he didn't show it. He simply indicated for her to turn around again, as he replied. "I was looking at your back earlier. I've only ever seen a scar pattern like that on survivors of that battle…"

"You were there?" McShane interrupted, intrigued despite herself.

"I was… In the vicinity, yes. But I only actually saw that particular scarring pattern when soldiers were having them removed. Why didn't you have the surgery yourself, if you don't mind my asking?"

McShane wasn't sure that she wanted to explain any of this to a total stranger, but the firm yet gentle hands on her back were very soothing. (She also noted that he restricted himself to areas of her body that she hadn't managed to apply lotion to herself. Either he wasn't into girls, or he was _extremely_ well disciplined.) She decided to meet him halfway. "I keep my scars to remind myself that I'm one of the lucky ones."

"Lucky?" he asked, sounding perplexed.

"I'm still here."

He was silent for a moment, concentrating on kneading a knuckle into a knot he had found (which was bliss!) and then he patted her on the shoulder. "All done and dusted." He announced briskly.

When McShane turned to thank him, she discovered him holding out what was left of the squeeze bulb, eyebrow raised hopefully. She found herself smiling ironically as she took it from him, saying. "Oh, go on then. But just this once mind!"

He smiled as he gave her a brief nod, then presented his back to her.

As McShane emptied the remaining contents of the bulb into her hands, she took the opportunity to re-evaluate her initial impression of his physique. He was tall, yes, undeniably: but now she had got a better look at him she decided that 'thin' wasn't an accurate description. Instead he was _lean_ , with the whipcord musculature of a greyhound. An image from her childhood in Perivale flashed through her mind. Little Dotty, sitting enthralled in front of the goggle-box, as a lean black man chases an Antelope _forever_. And when it finally collapses from exhaustion – the lean man gives it his thanks for its sacrifice before dispatching it. Then he slings it over his shoulders… and carries it a _bazillion_ miles back to his village…

Shaking away the momentary distraction, McShane reached up to start hitting those hard to reach spots, and asked him. "So how come I haven't seen you around before? I thought I knew all the live bait on this ship."

"Live bait?" He asked in return, tilting his head fractionally towards her.

"You know,' she replied, rubbing with more enthusiasm than skill, 'us. The ones that refused to be put to sleep for the entire flight. Been toffing it up with the crewers have you?"

His back muscles clench, which is quite an intriguing sensation, but he doesn't refuse to reply. "I have been confined to the Medical Ward, until today."

"You what?' McShane blurted out, unable to contain her surprise. 'I didn't think that corpse factories _had_ Medical Wards!" He flinches when he hears the word 'corpse'.

"Not in the usual course of events, no.' He paused. 'You may have noticed that this is not a usual mission?"

McShane was forced to concede the point, but wasn't really sure how to take the conversation any further. If a med bay had been retro fitted into the _Tiburon_ just for this man, he must be pretty clued in on the mission specs – which nobody else is entirely clear on yet. Casting a critical eye over the results of her handiwork, she judged him to be fully cooked and – deciding that reaching up to tap on his shoulder would entail getting a bit _too_ close – she declared. "Okay, Troop! You're done!"

Then she swatted his right buttock enthusiastically – and yelped in pain. (Apparently he was using it to store rocks.) However, the stinging in her hand became the least of her worries when he slowly turned around to face her. His lips were quirking, as if he was finding it very difficult not to laugh, and his eyes were glittering with amusement. However, his deep voice was calm, and almost insufferably 'proper'. "You are too kind, I'm sure. However, I feel that I have been remiss in not asking after your name. Allow me make my own introductions first.

'My name is Lucius.

'Lucius Fry.

' _Captain_ Lucius Fry."

McShane was totally gob smacked for a moment, and just gaped at him stupidly for several seconds as her mind turned over her options. Then she decided that she couldn't really dig herself a deeper hole, so she might as well see what kind of officer this Lucius bloke was going to be. Drawing herself up into rigid attention she saluted, then barked. "Sorry, Sir! Couldn't see your rank bars, Sir! Trooper McShane reporting for duty, Sir!

'And may I say how much I am looking forward to serving under you, Sir!"

In response to her salute, Captain Fry had stiffened to attention (in the military sense,) but on hearing the end of her 'report' he totally cracked up, having to lean against a cubicle as he convulsed with laughter. Refusing to look at her, he opened the door and choked out, "At ease, Trooper McShane! Finish you ablutions. And _that's_ an orders!" He was still laughing as he pulled the door closed behind him.

Greatly relieved, McShane did as she was told. Selecting another decadently luxurious five second burst from the mister, she danced about inside the cubical, rubbing the solution from her head with her eyes closed. She let the mister deal with the rest of her. Altering the settings on the control dial, she then allowed herself a glorious thirty seconds of hot air massage, wriggling and squirming in delight as she was dried and pampered. She was feeling pretty good about Captain Fry when she finally accepted delivery of another wafer thin Jumpsuit pack. In her experience, officers with a sense of humour were few and far between.

So it was ever so slightly disappointing to discover that he had made a rapid escape whilst she had been indulging herself. His mister cubicle was clearly empty, and there was no sign of him in the cleansing room _. Probably had to be somewhere, do some important officer-type stuff,_ she told herself disconsolately, as she shook out the utilities prior to donning them. Somehow, even after a glorious run, McShane felt a little let down – but she couldn't figure out why. Retrieving her deck shoes from the blast basin she had dumped them in on her arrival, she slipped them on and started to head towards the 'mess hall'. Maybe the company of a few more Dee-Kay's would sort her out.

She had only gone a few paces when she heard a deep voice call out. "Trooper McShane!" She span about to see Captain Fry, dressed in his own – rank-bar free – jumpsuit, peering back at her from around a turn in the corridor.

"Yes, Sir!" McShane responded with alacrity, springing to attention, just in case she had read the situation wrong.

He grinned at her wickedly, stepping out into full few so that he could stand before her with his arms folded across his chest. He was nodding very slowly, and McShane had absolutely no idea which way he was going to jump. And then his demeanor became more serious, or perhaps just more honest, as he said. "In answer to your earlier question, McShane.

'Yes.

'Very much so."

And then he tapped a casual finger to an eyebrow and was gone.


	4. Chapter 4

The improvised Mess Hall had, ironically enough, originally been the _Tiburon's_ Mess Hall. In anticipation of keeping the troops on ice for the majority of this flight, Space Fleet had removed all the fittings to create more storage space. On seeing this, those Dee-Kays that had objected strenuously enough – almost to the point of violence – to spending their time dead, had immediately set about converting it back. It was still incredibly cluttered, and the 'tables' and 'chairs' were all modified military equipment or storage crates, but at least it was somewhere to congregate.

They were an eclectic group – these elite soldiers – and Dalek Killers (although _mostly_ humans,) were drawn from many different species.

There weren't any Sontaran's yet…

Even though they were allied with Space Fleet against the Daleks, and they participated in joint operations without hesitation. (Any chance at 'Glorious Combat' was enthusiastically accepted!) However, the cloned soldiers preferred to remain among their own kind, and McShane had only ever seen _one_ up close. The Earth Reptiles, Draconian's, and the New Martians, also had fleets of their own: but many individuals from those species had volunteered as Dalek Killers, for _reasons_ of their own.

There were only a few of them about at present. The majority of the Earth Reptiles had no problem with being put on ice – Hell! For them it was practically second nature! – and pretty much the same could be said of the Ice Warriors. Outside their massive bio-mechanical power-suits, the majority of the Martians were no bigger than your average humanoid. They actually _preferred_ to go into cold storage when forced to relinquish their armour, unless the ship was _very_ cold.

McShane's friend, Essstaarl, was the first to spot her when she began to negotiate her way through the stacks again towards the (relatively,) clear central area. The female Ice Warrior raised a hand to beckon McShane over, patting the top of her head, and then twirling a finger over the crate beside her. (Actually, Essstaarl was an 'Ice Lady', some kind of high muckety-muck on New Mars apparently…)

Despite their friendship, McShane still wasn't sure why the Martian woman had volunteered to become a Dalek Killer, or why she chose to suffer the discomfort of such a 'hot' ship. But she was sure Essstaarl would tell her eventually – when she was ready. Not wanting to shout over the various conversations separating them, she patted her stomach, and mimed taking a swig. Then she threw her friend a grin and a thumbs up. Essstaarl acknowledged with a nod, then returned her attention to the banter around her.

As she passed the running mill that Xiphonax had created, McShane jeered good naturedly at the man using it. "Does Sheephonax know that you only use that to practice running away, Vastogne? You couldn't get away from a Wirrn lava at that speed!"

Vastogne, who was breathing easily as he kept up his steady pace, didn't look at her as he replied – his eyes fixed on some imaginary horizon. "There is an _art_ to running away, my young Padawan,' he said, in the placid tones of a venerable sage to a recalcitrant child. 'It is not about how _fast_ you can run, but how far…" McShane laughed before moving on. (He always managed to crack her up, somehow, but she had yet to get a bite out of him!)

Her intended destination was the Galley. Of course, it wasn't a _real_ Galley, just an area scoured out to provide somewhere to stash the ratpacks, originally. However, this had changed when Allutron had turned up, and decided to take over. He had seemed a bit of an odd man out at first, neither a trooper nor a crewer. But since he could work magic with the most minimal of ingredients, he was rapidly accepted as one of the live bait posse.

As usual, he was seated behind his makeshift counter – a 'spare' guidance fin from some luckless ROAM (Remotely Operated Atmospheric Missile) – when she approached. "Hello, Allutron. Who's on the menu today?" She asked.

"You know, McShane? That line _never_ gets old.' He stated, deadpan. Affecting an expression of deep contemplation, Allutron went on, 'In fact, I think that it gets funnier _every_ time that you say it…"

McShane had eventually discovered that he was a 'nanotechnologist', responsible for certain (classified) mission specific assets and equipment. He wouldn't say more than that, other than that it left him with a lot of spare time, at this point in the mission.

What he _had_ told her was that he was a Thal. McShane still wasn't sure if she believed him. She had good reason to know that he was physically identical to a human male – in _every_ respect – and given their compulsory baldness, that particular races _one_ trademark feature was not in evidence. (He even did his eyebrows!)

Still, if he _was_ a Thal, then he was a rare beast indeed. The Thal's had been fighting the Dalek Wars for longer than anyone else, and it was generally rumoured that there weren't too many of them left. They still maintained an active and important alliance with Space Fleet, but they preferred to operate as independent and self-contained Special Forces units. (Where even Dalek Killers fear to tread.)

If there was a new Thal home world somewhere, they weren't telling anyone. Allutron _had_ let slip that he had once been on a Thal ship where – due to circumstances that he refused to go into – they had been forced to recycle their dead crewmates. _"It's not like we just cut their legs off and made a stew, McShane! The disassemblers broke the bodies down into their component molecules, which were then reassembled into water, proteins, and minerals. It is now standard practice on all Thal vessels. We cannot afford to waste anything!"_

McShane knew (vaguely) how gobblers and assemblers worked, but even though they were used here on a daily basis, for the most mundane of purposes – she was still a 20th century girl at heart. It all still seemed like science fiction to her, and she was unable to feel as comfortable with the tech as people that had been _born_ into this time.

Still, if she was honest with herself, her daily digs at Allutron were more to keep him at a distance. The man had a bit of a soft spot for her. (Or, to be more accurate, the bit that he had for her was anything _but_ soft.) However, McShane _really_ liked him…

So she didn't want to let herself get too attached, and she _definitely_ didn't want him getting too attached to her…

She gave him her best cheeky grin, and said, "Aw… Come on, Allutron, you know I only tease you 'cos I love you!"

He rolled his eyes and groaned in mock despair. "Oh, McShane! If only that were true!' Then he reached behind himself to grab a self-heating ratpack from a stack. Dropping it onto his counter, he looked up at her and continued. 'I'm assuming that you don't want to sample my latest culinary masterpiece, and would prefer – just for a change – Ration Number Five?"

"You read my mind, Chef!"

"And what would Madam like to drink with that?"

"Well, I'm not really sure…' McShane made a show out of giving the question some deep thought, then snapped her fingers, as if just remembering something. ''Oh! I know! Did you ever manage to work out that drink I asked about before?"

Allutron gazed at her sardonically. "Love Potion Number Nine? No… I'm afraid that I have been unable to locate the chemical breakdown of that particular concoction."

"Oh, what a shame! Well, in that case, I'll splash out and have bulb of Hotel Two Oscar – make it a double!"

The (maybe) Thal was grinning and shaking his head as he handed over her water and ratpack, so McShane allowed herself to act on the spur of moment. She made sure to brush her hands against his as she accepted her food, and captured his astonishingly blue eyes with her own when he looked up at her quizzically.

Then she gave him a seductive wink, loaded with innuendo, and said "Maybe I'll see you later?"

Then she walked away, smirking to herself. If she knew the affect she usually had on him, (and she did,) the poor bloke wouldn't be standing up to leave his counter anytime soon. Maybe she was being mean, or maybe he might actually get lucky tonight – she would just have to see how she felt later. As long as Allutron understood that it could never be anything serious… Well, life was too short and unpredictable not to have some fun while you could.

+++++++++++++++++ Insert line-break. ++++++++++++++++++

Captain Fry couldn't get Trooper McShane out of his head.

He desperately wanted to renew his acquaintance with her as soon as possible, but wasn't entirely sure how to go about it. At the moment he felt fit and healthy, which he considered quite astonishing, considering how desperately ill he had been during the long recuperation – but he had no idea how long that would last. Allutron's work was practically the definition of experimental – right up there with 'I don't know what the Hell I'm doing', it often seemed – and Fry had no idea if his Thal friend's 'medication' would prove as effective as they both hoped.

Unfortunately, there was so little of his life (and memories,) that he could – in good conscience – share with McShane. This would make striking up any kind of worthwhile dialogue somewhat… problematic. He had already lied to her once, when he told her that he had been confined to the Medical Ward. Gazing round the converted space around him, that only he and the brilliant Thal nanotechnologist had ever spent any time in, he considered the long past that had led to now, and never…

Most of the actual medical work that Fry had required had been carried out on Station Five, before he had even boarded the _Tiburon_. He didn't really worry about the surgical procedures that he'd had to undergo. (He had been sown back together so often, Fry just considered requiring medical treatment to be an irritating inconvenience – one that kept him away from his job.)

No, what he _hadn't_ liked were the attentions of the scientists of the Special Projects Unit - but that was so highly classified that Fry wasn't even cleared to know the full details himself. It seemed unlikely that he would be able to share what little he did know with McShane. The only good point during this unpleasant process, had been being reunited with Allutron. Up until then he hadn't been told how many of the Thal's had survived the mission that had landed him on Station Five, despite how many time's he had asked.

The room he had been transferred to aboard the _Tiburon_ was more a scientific research lab than a Med Bay, really. True, he had a state-of-the-art medical bio-bed, with all the bells and whistles – but that was just a case of triple redundancy, as far as Fry could tell. There was also a fully stocked chiller cabinet – containing everything _currently_ available – that might _possibly_ be required to enable the Captain to complete his mission.

The rest of the available space was given over to Allutron's Nanotech research, and all manner of wondrous machinery, exotic doodads, and things that go 'Ping!' Fry didn't actually see the Thal for much of the time, beyond the regular checks to confirm that the process was developing as hoped for. Occasionally, the Captain would be woken from a troubled doze to find his friend tapping away frenziedly at a keyboard, only be assured that Allutron had just thought of something else, and wanted see if it would be useful. There was little point in asking for details when this happened, Fry considered, and he didn't want to disturb the man at his work.

Unfortunately, this left him bored out of his mind most of the time!

Really all he had to do was recover his strength, but this seemed to entail a lot of lying about doing nothing, and eating a ridiculous amount of concentrated nutrient packets. The repairs to his mutilated body were a constantly nagging presence, even without covers – the weight of the very air itself often seemed to bear down on him. Allutron's medications had no pain killing component, as he wanted Fry to remain as alert as possible during the procedure… But the Captain suspected that his friend _had_ slipped a few 'extra's' into the mix. Although the pain had taken a long time to fade, Fry was continually astonished at how little physical evidence of his wounds remained visible, at first glance.

Given that, maybe he _could_ tell McShane about _some_ of the treatments, if not the actual purpose they were intended to achieve – but that would have to wait, until he knew whether she would want to know anything about him in the first place. _(Don't get ahead of yourself, Lucius!)_ Perhapsthe safest approach would be to tell her about where he had _actually_ spent a good deal of his time after boarding the _Tiburon,_ and see where things went from there.

Decision made, Fry left the Med Bay and headed towards the umbilical that connected the main body of the _Tiburon_ to its zero-grav Command Pod.

Once he had been strong enough to get out of his bed, Fry had requisitioned an inter-ship hover-sled from storage, and made his first visit to the _Tiburon's_ bridge. Now he was able to stride confidently down the passageway, and negotiate any hatchways or ladders under his own steam.

Reaching the airlock to the umbilical, Captain Fry used the dedicated comms link to request permission to 'come aboard'. Ever since his first visit, Fry had never been refused, even though _strictly_ speaking, he was not authorised to access the bridge itself. The Captain of the _Tiburon_ , a Terileptil called Vaarg, was the only member of the crew who knew the full details of Fry's mission. Knowing what he did, Vaarg couldn't find it in himself to deny him and, despite the cramped conditions, the rest of the flight crew soon grew used to Fry's presence.

Standing inside the first airlock as the pressure differential equalised, he allowed himself to gradually float free of the floor, so that he could position himself ready to enter the (much smaller) hatch into the umbilical. It wasn't the blessed relief that it had initially been – a merciful release from the oppression of gravity – but he still enjoyed the sensation of being weightless.

As he hauled himself along the long, narrow pipe, Fry reflected on the rationale behind the design of Space Fleet ships that weren't dedicated combat vessels. The brutal fact was that trained and experienced flight crew _were_ more valuable than whatever cargo they were carrying, even if that cargo was soldiers. (All ground pounders were well aware of this – hence their morbid names for most Fleet vessels.)

It wasn't just them that were at threat though, the majority of the crewers would die in the event that the control pod had to bale. Only six of the eighteen flight crew had a remote possibility of surviving, if the _Tiburon_ was detected and attacked by Dalek warcraft. That's why there were screens of heavily armed Fleet ships out there to protect, distract and decoy. But the best defence still remained – to remain undetected. (Only the hospital ships used more stealth systems than a troop carrier.)

The flight crews worked staggered eight hour shifts, only relinquishing their post once their replacement had arrived. They were also under orders to get eight hours sleep, if at all possible, and the final eight hours was for eating, general living - and exercising in full-grav. Fry hadn't really known much about the reasons behind the spherical shape of the Pod, and the need for a zero gravity environment, having spent most of his military career operating from Thal ships.

Fry had been surprised, when he first entered the bridge, to find that there was no up or down. He had been thinking of himself as traveling forwards as he glided along the umbilical, but when he cycled through the airlock connecting directly to the pod, the first person he saw was looking at him from the same orientation, as if Fry had floated up to join her. Then he realised that any terms of directional reference were superfluous, as the other seven workstations were ranged around the interior of the bridge, so that everyone had their heads to the centre, and their butts to the wall.

Captain Vaarg was unwilling to explain anything while on duty, and instructed that, whilst Fry was welcome to observe – he should do so silently. He had later taken the time to explain. The small size of the Command Pod, was due to the fragile nature of the escape hatch this 'lifeboat' could provide. An advancement on traditional transmat technology, vessels so equipped would drop relay arrays as they advanced into potentially hostile space. If the worst came to the worst, they could detach from the umbilical and attempt to 'leapfrog' out of danger. It simply wasn't possible to use this on anything larger yet, although Vaarg believed that researchers were constantly working on ways to beef up the system.

This also explained, apparently, the necessity for the zero-grav. But the _Tiburon's_ Captain had been rather vague on that point. (Perhaps he didn't even know himself!) By now, Vaarg had relaxed his restrictions on Captain Fry, he was allowed to converse with the flight crew – if _they_ chose to explain anything, he was permitted to ask questions, and he come to know all eighteen, at least by name. Today, Fry decided as he joined the current duty crew, he was just going to hang loose, and see if he learned anything safe to share – that McShane may find interesting…

+++++++++++++++++ Insert line-break. ++++++++++++++++++

Essstaarl shifted slightly as McShane took her place next to her, but continued listening to whatever Kerdan was telling her. It was unusual to see the female Earth Reptile 'at table', she usually preferred to just plonk herself somewhere on an isolated stack, keeping herself to herself. She was one of only two Earth Reptiles that had foregone 'the ice', but McShane had never had the opportunity to ask why. The woman was just too intimidating to approach in a casual manner.

"MukSsshayne!' Essstaarl greeted her, when Kerdan paused for a breath, 'It isss good to sssee you looking ssso well!" Unable to think of a response to that right away, McShane just smiled and tilted a wink in her friend's direction.

While she broke off the Spork attached to her ratpack, activating the self-heating function, she said. "Not looking too shabby yourself, Mate! How are you coping with the heat? And what're you two _whispering_ about?"

Essstaarl hissed slightly – her way of laughing, McShane knew – before replying, gesturing towards the rapidly 'cooking' meal. "I sssee you ssstill will not eat Allutron'sss disssh of the day, MukSsshayne! Sss, Sss, Sss! You _really_ don't know what you are misssing!"

"And I intend to keep it that way, thank you very much! Besides, I _like_ this stuff." McShane mock protested. (And it was true enough… She wasn't entirely sure what was in it, but McShane was practically addicted to Five…)

"He isss a very clever man, that Allutron.' Essstaari stated, nodding towards the distinctly uncomfortable looking 'chef'. 'He hasss made for me a clever modification. I don't know how it works, but my jumpsuit now helps me to maintain a more comfortable body temperature.' She then leaned back a little on her packing crate, to include the patiently observant Kerdan, offering her a brief apology before saying. "Kerdan here was telling me a fassscinating ssstory about her new arm…" She trailed off suggestively, obviously hoping to encourage the Earth Reptile into continuing her tale.

McShane looked curiously at both of Kerdan's arms, then offered a slightly apologetic look to the woman. "Er, forgive me for asking, Kerdan, but which one would that be? And what's new about it?"

For a moment it looked like Kerdan was not going to answer her, (McShane found the facial expressions of the species completely unreadable – not to say non-existent,) but it was merely a brief pause. "To apologise is unnecessary, fellow Trooper. It is _this_ arm of which I speak.' She flexed her left arm in McShane's direction as she continued. 'Although to call it new is perhaps misleading. I have had it for over a year now."

Thoroughly confused, McShane paused to unpeel the cover from her meal, then glanced quickly at Essstaarl. The Ice Warrior would have made a _great_ poker player! Before getting stuck into her Five, the Human said, "Okay. That sounds like a story worth hearing, Kerdan. But first, if it isn't a rude question… Er… What happened to your old one?"

"I agree,' Essstaarl chimed in, 'This _I_ would like to know alssso, if the telling isss permitted."

The normally taciturn woman, whom McShane had always assumed was a dedicated loner, considered the remains of her own meal for a moment, dabbing at the last traces of paste with a finger. After sucking that finger clean thoughtfully, Kerdan began to speak. "As I am sure you are both aware, my people are specialists in underground warfare. We also have certain… technology… that enables us to attack our enemies from below. This has often proved useful against the Daleks. When circumstances allow, and the terrain is suitable, we endeavor to create traps to kill the evil creatures.'

McShane sporked a chunk of meat (if it _was_ meat,) from her container, and managed not to miss her mouth, even though her attention was fixed on the Earth Reptile. As always, the texture and flavour was intoxicating.

"The simplest approach is to tunnel up from below, leaving only a small layer of top cover in place, so that on the surface it is impossible to see. When the prey moves over the trap, that surface layer is liquefied, and the target is drawn down into _our_ domain. With the assistance of Space Fleet, we were able to develop a weapon that was specifically targeted at the Dalek travel machine's weakest area – the base plate. If the Dalek is traveling on the surface, it is unprotected by its anti-grav shielding, and the Scientific Elite have yet to recognise and address this weakness…

'Being creatures of limited intellect, Warrior Daleks – those that are sent first into the fray – have a tendency to panic when the ground begins to swallow them… They do not think to fly out of danger. They are too busy shrieking _'I AM UNDUUUR AATTAAAACK! I AM UNDUUUR AATTAAAACK!'_ to realise how easy it would be to get away."

The accuracy of Kerdan's impersonation startled McShane, and she nearly choked on her latest mouthful.

'The idea is to place our special weapon against the underneath of the Dalek's travel machine – where it is held in place magnetically – and then detonate the device from a safe distance, while the Dalek is still crying for its Mummy. On my bomb, the magnetic attachment failed for some reason, so I had to physically hold the device against the base plate… As I detonated the charge."

This time McShane _did_ choke. She had begun to suspect that Kerdan's story was heading in this direction, but to hear it delivered so calmly, so matter-of-factly… Well, it _still_ surprised her. She had seen such traps working effectively on several battlefields. She knew that the shaped charge weapon Kerdan was talking about, well, it was supposed to direct at _least_ 90 percent of its destructive force upwards – _inside_ the travel machine. Even though the payload was (relatively) small, the Dalek driving the machine ended up like a frog in a blender. McShane knew – she had been unwise enough to open one up. From the outside, although clearly dead, the Dalek that she had examined looked practically undamaged. Only the drooping eye-stalk, and weapons sticks – and a thin wisp of greasy smoke from its neck bits – really showed that it had ceased to be.

Inside, it looked like someone had set off a crate of fireworks inside a paint factory…

Essstaarl enthusiastically began belting her on the back in a comradely fashion, Sss-ing all the while – almost dislocating her spine. (Well, that's what it _felt_ like!) But it seemed to do the trick. When McShane managed to raise her eyes towards Kerdan again, it was with a profound feeling of awe and respect. (Okay, she liked mucking about with high explosives as much as the next girl – but she wasn't sure that she would have the balls to detonate a bomb that she was actually holding onto!)

"Wow!' she gasped. 'I mean, how the _fuck_ did you survive that?"

Kerdan studied her left hand contemplatively, apparently un-phased by McShane's reaction, and said simply. "I was lucky."

McShane didn't know that much about the people that had (apparently,) thrived on her home planet when her ancester's were little more than rodents. (Just enough to be deeply grateful that they were on her side.) So she felt no qualms in asking, "So… What? You just, like… Grew a new arm?"

Before Kerdan could reply, an enthusiastic bellow of "Good Morning, ladies!" demanded their attention. It was Roadkill, of course. Dee-Kay's didn't usually go in for nick-names, preferring the separation and distance that impersonal surnames provided. Roadkill had created his own nick-name, and refused to answer to anything else. (As he was ever so slightly insane – and _insanely_ good to have at your back in a shit storm – not even the officers used his real name.) McShane didn't even know what it was.

A near-human from Kaldor, Roadkill's face did exactly what it said on the tin. (He was even more protective of his scars than McShane.) Unfortunately, he also considered himself to be the joker in the pack, which was a shame, as usually he wasn't even remotely funny. Dumping his own breakfast down on the dismembered Hearse aileron that served as their table, he pulled up a crate and began to dig in enthusiastically. Completely oblivious to his audience's total lack of interest, he began to regale them with a tale about something that McShane had lost interest in before he even started.

Axtol, the only Earth Reptile besides Kerdan that had chosen not to enter deep sleep, gave him an unreadable glance, then pushed his own crate back from the table. Before leaving, he retrieved the packaging of his own meal to be recycled, and offered Kerdan a bow of deep respect. Evidently she didn't know how to react to this, because she didn't.

Tuning out Roadkill's monologue, McShane glanced over to where Xiphonax, one of the Draconian troops, had just arrived. He was chatting with Vastogne about something. Evidently he must have already eaten, as he then headed straight for the communal table.

When he arrived behind Roadkill, the man was totally unaware of the Draconians presence, as he said. "Well, enough about that, ladies – got a new joke for y'all! What do you get…? If you lock a Sontaran, a Draconian, and a Human together in the same cell?"

He studied them all avidly, egging them on to have a guess, as Essstaarl, McShane, and Kerdan exchanged bemused looks. Then the women all turned their attention to Xiphonax, standing just behind Roadkill, to see how he would react to this. He simply bent down until he could murmur quietly into the ugly man's ear. "A well fed Draconian."

Roadkill froze, then gradually turned his head until he was eye to eye with the elegant Draconian. "Ah, hello, Sheephonax! Didn't know you were there!' He offered brightly, then added hurriedly, 'Just a joke, Mate! No offense intended…"

Xiphonax smiled as he helped himself to the crate so recently vacated by Axtol. 'Oh, I realise that, my friend,' he said as he settled himself beside Roadkill. "Of course, there is no basis in fact for those tired old rumours, I'm sure that you are of that." He favoured the women opposite with a loaded look, and they all watched in breathless anticipation to see what would happen next.

"Of course, Mate!' Roadkill agreed, obviously relieved that he hadn't pissed his drinking oppo off, and turned back to his food. Xiphonax just observed him from the corner of his eye, waiting until the man had taken a particularly huge mouthful of food – before leaning in close and murmuring. "Sontaran's are _completely_ inedible."

Now it was Roadkill's turn to choke on his food, and the girls just cracked up. Essstaarl was Sss-ing ten to the dozen, McShane was laughing like she hadn't done in what felt like forever, and Kerdan was quietly tapping the 'table' in appreciation. Xiphonax stood to receive his accolade, and McShane jumped up immediately and high-fived him. To his credit – once he had actually stopped coughing – Roadkill also stood to give his friend a five, then licked a finger to chalk an imaginary 'one up' on an invisible blackboard.

It was this kind of shit that made people want to spend their time alive, rather than dead in a coffin.


	5. Chapter 5

_Thank you_ _all_ _so_ _much for your attention and interaction._

 _Unfortunately, I have come to the conclusion that it would be better to spend the foreseeable future dead._

 _Fuck you very much._

I have left the above as an explanation for the feedback received on this story. To those first responders – thank you very much! (I honestly didn't think anyone was actually reading anything I wrote – so it wouldn't really matter what I posted.)

I didn't mean to imply that I intended to 'off' myself. Perhaps the oblique reference to the content of the story was too subtle – or just plain fatuous. (I haven't actually enjoyed being alive for a very long time – but that doesn't equate to _wanting_ to die. As a motorcyclist, I had near-death experiences three or four times a week. (Motorbikes are invisible to other road users.) As a patient, due to the misdiagnosis of various GP's, I have hovered on the brink of extinction several times, and remain _deeply_ grateful to the surgeons that saved my life on those occasions.)

I'm afraid that – as well as being a drama queen – I'm a bit of a manic depressive. (Not entirely sure _which_ bit, but there you go.) When the isolation and pointless futility of existence gets the better of me, sometimes I just give up for a while, but I ain't gonna 'end it all.' Sorry if I alarmed anyone. (I was just planning to suck my thumb and feel sorry for myself for a couple of months.)

But! Having people acknowledge that I actually exist has been a real boost in the arm! Thank you again!

Hopefully I will be replacing this with an actual chapter in the near future.


End file.
